She's Cheer Captain and He's Shooting Spit Balls
by cootiegirl
Summary: He's got a John Bender complex and she's Head Cheerleader, Class President, and a Grade A Nerd to boot. An unlikely couple for sure, especially since they hate each other's guts. Just your cliche high school AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Soul Eater.

**Author's Note:** I've been wanting to write a high school AU for a while, and when I saw some fanart by the incredibly talented Tumblr user _burge_, I totally fell in love with the idea of bad boy Soul and good girl Maka; a rebel-meets-daddy's-girl, slacker vs. prom queen kind of thing. I guess I have a soft spot for cliches.

Now if only I could write a Soul Eater Musical...

* * *

They have their first encounter when they are enrolling for ninth grade.

He sees a girl from the corner of his eye, a short, skinny, stereotypical schoolgirl. Her hair is tied up in pigtails like she's still stuck in kindergarten and she's got the pleated skirt/ironed shirt combo, but there is one thing that looks terribly out of place; a pair of combat boots that look too big for her feet and squeak something terrible on the newly polished linoleum tiles.

She glances around the room and gets ushered to the first line of nervous-looking students whose last names start with A through D. She seems to be the only one who isn't wringing their hands; the smile on her lips stretches like a slice of melon across her face, and after a couple seconds she's honest to God shaking hands with the kid in front of her. She fills out her papers quickly and goes to wait in line for her student ID picture.

This is when she sees him. 

He's waiting too. She's close to attempting a friendly grin, but he looks away before she can get in a "hello". She gets the hint and stays quiet. That is, until she starts chatting with the dark-haired girl behind her, introducing herself as Maka and getting a polite "I'm Tsubaki" in return.

Soul doesn't smile for his picture. His card is printed out, he pockets it, and is about to leave when a school administrator with a crazed grin like he's eaten one too many packets of Fun Dip pops up in front of him.

"Where are you going, mister? You wouldn't want to miss the after-registration mixer, would you?"

After a moment of protest, he directs him to another room (by jabbing him between the shoulder blades with his clipboard), which is apparently the gym.

Paper streamers and punch bowls and pop music and everything that Soul hates is here, along with a couple hundred of his new classmates. They mingle and eat finger sandwiches and sway awkwardly to the beat of the new hit single by whoever-the-hell-cares. There are adults next to every exit, and Soul gives a not-so-quiet exclamation of "_son of a bitch_" when he realizes that they're trying to corral the students into interacting with each other. They're trapped like goldfish in a tiny bowl, all smushed together for no reason other than to "make friends".

He sits in the bleachers and tries to look like he doesn't want to rip his hair out, since there are teachers already observing this year's picks of fresh meat and he doesn't want to get on their radar before school even begins. He sees Maka handing out drinks to a pair of girls. She gets Tsubaki familiarized with them, and they all laugh together over some hilarious joke. He watches them until his attention is brought to a group of snickering boys a couple rows ahead of him. 

One points at the two girls. "_Hot damn_," he says, rubbing his chest. "Didn't think there'd be any tits here, but I sure was wrong. And look at the ass on that one," he says, mouth comically dropping open as he gapes at Tsubaki.

Another boy gives a low whistle. "Wow, she's gorgeous. But who's that flat chest next to her?"

Soul notes with mirth that the boy's hair is only a couple shades darker than robin's egg blue, and he isn't exactly the most quiet as Tsubaki and the aforementioned look over at him immediately. "_Shit_, is that who I think it is?" He leaps over the bleachers. "Oi, Maka!"

"Black Star?"

"It's been a while, kid! Where've you been this summer?"

"Oh, I… Nowhere."

"Missed ya, dude. Good thing we're going to the same school, eh?"

"Yeah." Maka beams at her friend and they give each other a short hug. Black Star pats her back like he doesn't want to seem too emotional, but she grips him in a bone-crushing embrace that he soon returns. 

Soul watches this whole encounter, up to the part where Black Star demands loudly that Maka introduce him to "this lovely lady". Tsubaki blushes redder than a firetruck and Maka looks annoyed that he's hitting on her new friend.

"I'll go get us some refreshments," she says, steering her away from them.

Black Star's friend hits him in the shoulder. "What's your deal, man? You and that chick banging or what?"

Soul finds this a little questionable as the majority of the kids here are barely fourteen, but even fourteen year olds want to seem mature and cool because they know what _sex _is, so he just rolls his eyes.

The questioned stops looking for Tsubaki and gives his buddy a stare so deep it's awkward even for Soul, who's not remotely sitting close to them. "Me and her grew up together. I wouldn't put a finger on that girl. And neither would you. In fact, don't even look at her. Got it?"

"Jeez, yeah, okay, I hear you." He shrugs, but still looks intimidated by Black Star, who's only about five foot two, not counting the couple inches that his, uh, _voluminous _hairstyle adds on.

Suddenly this whole thing seems very funny to Soul. Watching other students and their problems unfold in front of them. Arguments. He's just a shadow behind them, lurking, listening.

But then he isn't a shadow anymore. 

"Hey, who's this clown?"

The small chuckle that he thought had been only to himself is actually audible, and Black Star spins around to squint at him.

"Something funny, punk?"

"No."

He squints harder, drawing together blue eyebrows over dark green irises like pond lilies. "You're new, aren't you? Never seen you around here before. What grade you in?"

"This is freshman orientation. What grade do you think?"

"Don't be a smartass. I'm Black Star," he continues, "the _star _of the school and the one who's gonna surpass God." He jabs a thumb to a boy next to him. "This is Kilik."

Kilik gives a friendly guy-nod. "What's your name? You play anything?"

"Soul. No."

"Shibusen's got baseball, soccer, track, swimming, basketball, tennis, football, you name it. You could start. Me and Star are on the football team. Actually, all of the teams. We could set you up."

Soul shrugs. "Sorry. It's not my thing."

"You look like you could be good. You sure?"

"Are sports that big of a deal here?"

Black Star, offended, puffs up like a small bird fluffing its feathers, (how _dare _this newbie insult the greatest hobby that mankind has to offer?) but Kilik laughs. "Actually, yeah. It's the most we've got going for us. There aren't many other extracurricular activities."

"Except drama and the music programs." Black Star snickers, and Soul flinches. "You wanna join the marching band, Sal? Go pick up a tuba or a french horn? Maybe a flute?"

"_Soul_," Soul says through gritted teeth. "And no thanks."

"If you want to be anyone here, this is the place to be in. Not the mention the girls. They love us."

Mr. Evans, who hasn't had a lot of experience with the opposite sex, shrugs even harder. Girls don't really interest him right now, and sports interest him even less. This is going to be one fun year.

"So what _do _you like to do?"

"I don't know."

Black Star is holding in chortles, but Kilik just copies one of Soul's shrugs (which now seem to be a signature thing of his). "No pressure, man. Just think about it."

Maka comes back with the drinks, looking pleased as punch, which is a coincidence because that's exactly what she's carrying. More like balancing though, as she's holding five or so plastic cups without any help.

The boys take them eagerly, and she blinks before giving the last one to Soul. "Hi. I'm Maka." She holds out a hand.

"I know."

Her delicate features melt into a quizzical frown.

"Blue Bird here talks really loud," he adds hastily. "And your... name tag..." He gestures to the white square on the front of her shirt that presents her as _Maka Albarn of the Plaid and Pigtails_.

His probably says something like _Soul Evans: Stuttering Fool. Seriously Uncool. _

Her laugh is like the sound of summertime; reminders of grass, clouds, sunshine, a cool breeze. Soft and happy, like much-awaited bubblegum popsicles from that ice cream truck with the overplayed jingle that blares for miles around on a loop until the hot weather subsides.

For a second, a feeling of hope starts to blossom inside of him. Maybe it won't be so bad here. These people aren't terrible. He could let Black Star take him under his wing and turn him into a football hero, he could get people to like him, he could finally fit in. And Maka seems nice. There's something about her that's just… warm. He feels content with her presence, something that he's not used to. Soul is not a people person. Never has been. Maka's different, though. He wants to hear that laugh again.

"Black Star's like my brother. If he bothers you, just tell me and I'll kick his butt." She watches him gulp his mixture of orange sherbet and ginger ale and fruit juice and crush the cup against his forehead. "He may not look it, but he means well. Don't take him too seriously."

"You seem to really know what's going on around here."

"I should." Maka sighs. "My dad's the vice principal here. He's got a lot of responsibilities, you know? Being second in command is a big job. But since our actual principal, _the number one, the big kahuna,_ yada yada, doesn't really… show his face a lot, my dad assumed the position and does basically everything for him. You've probably seen _him _jumping around, though. Red hair. Overbearing. Friendliness that's just on the brink of creepy?"

Soul remembers the man that brought him in here. "Yeah. I met him."

"Ugh. I'm sorry." She straightens up. "So. You excited for school? Freshman year's supposed to be the most important, you know."

Honestly, the thought of school with all of its teachers and homework and rules and students makes Soul's stomach churn, but he musters a small smile, and Maka grins back knowingly. "Not a fan of the whole public education scene?"

He's relieved that she doesn't flinch at the sight of his irregularly shaped teeth. She doesn't stare, instead keeping her eyes trained on his, but doesn't do it out of politeness like the many others. She just doesn't seem to notice. He wonders how many times she's been face-to-face with albino demon spawn.

"I went to a private school," he says apologetically, like it's his fault that his parents are so goddamn pretentious.

"You didn't strike me as the type." She feigns thought, pressing a finger to her lips. "I bet you'll like it here more."

"I think so too."

Her smile makes him wish he'd worn something other than a plain white tee and some three day old jeans, done something else with his hair to make it look less like it belongs to a yeti.

Yeah, he's definitely going to like it here.

* * *

And then the only thing that could even possibly ruin this happens.

Someone (probably one of the jocks with big feet tripping over double-knotted Nike sneakers) bumps into his back, pushing him into Maka and propelling his drink out of his grasp and onto Maka's very clean and very _white _shirt. Carbonated cranberry-raspberry colors her blouse and speckles her face with red. Liquid runs down her arm like sticky sweet blood that's too clear and fruity-smelling to confirm that there's been a punctured artery or stabbed organs.

Soul's hands are stained with the stuff, and he looks like a suspect caught red-handed at a murder scene.

The group gets silent, and at that very moment, Soul bursts out laughing. No one joins in, so it's just his voice ringing through the air, loud and harsh and mean. He doesn't even know why he's laughing, but he isn't stopping either, because what the hell is he supposed to say if he just suddenly drops dead quiet? It's his bizarre laughter, not the act, that attracts the attention from the rest of the room. His chest suddenly feels too tight, like his lungs are refusing to take in air.

Maka stands covered in punch, pigtails dripping. She doesn't look fazed, but glances around for a napkin.

Soul's chuckles reverberate. He expects her to laugh with him, expects to hear the rewarding sugary giggles pouring out of her mouth. Maybe if he keeps laughing, she'll pick up on it too.

But she doesn't, and instead others do. Black Star's friends sound like a bunch of howler monkeys, the popular girls with lip gloss and tight clothes titter from their place by the speakers, and the surrounding students stare, not sure whether to stifle their laughs or stay there, shocked.

Maka sees the here-and-there snigger and whispers into ears and her nails bite into her hands. She swallows hard, and her gaze finds Soul's just as the rest of the gym erupts into an uproar. There's hurt in her eyes, shining like mirrors that reflect Soul's own horrified face as he realizes what he's done. Fingers point in her direction, pictures are snapped, and she turns on her heel and flees, combat boots squeaking all the way to the door, where a teacher does nothing but look on in amusement.

Black Star starts after her. "Maka!"

She sniffles into her sleeve, which only drags more stuff onto her face, and runs out.

He returns to Soul. "You're gonna regret that," he growls before going after her once more.

Perfectly on time, the vice principal, Maka's father, storms in, clipboard in hand. His face matches his traffic light-red tresses, and seems to be turning darker by the second. "You! What the hell did you do to my daughter, you little octopus head?" He shakes his shoulders violently, almost making his knees buckle underneath him. "I'm keeping my eye on you," he checks Soul's name tag, "_Evans_."

Everyone's looking at him now.

Scowling? No. But they aren't watching in awe or adoration. They're wondering what had just happened, and wait a minute, who is this kid? Hey, isn't he kind of a jerk for laughing at that girl after spilling stuff on her? Why doesn't he say he's sorry?

Why _doesn't _he?

He wants to hear her laugh. He wants it all to be a joke, so he can help her get cleaned up and maybe share a few more smiles and use this unfortunate incident as a way to make friends, but instead he just stands there like a guffawing asshole, not helping, not apologizing.

And there isn't any way to change what the whole freshman class had witnessed.

Saying sorry won't help Maka, it'll just award him a slap across the face and a teary-eyed "_how could you_?"

He blew it. His one chance to make a good impression with potential BFFs has been demolished just like poor Maka's self-esteem. He's the klutzy jerk who doesn't know how to say a five letter word. Who wants to be friends with someone like that?

So there is only one way to make this better. If not for Maka, for him.

He grins. Lets out a short laugh. Makes eye contact with a couple students to tell them "yes, I did that on purpose" and "yes, I just made her cry". Meanders out of the room with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face, not aware that he would be spending his whole high school career in that very same position.


	2. Chapter 2

_He _is dressed in jeans, sneakers worn down to the sole, a simple white t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Hilariously stereotypical, and even more so if you include the slouch and grouch. He is sharper than a tack, that Soul Evans. Careless and nonchalant and as untroubled as the stoners who live under the bleachers, although he prefers to get high on the delight from scaring the living bejesus out of the nerds reading comic books on the front steps. Most of the time.

A messy flop of snow white hair that's made to look rumpled on purpose but not too obviously, a mouth full of spite and enough attitude to go around. A strong jaw, a sharp nose. Handsome but hateful, a deadly combination. Tan skin and slight circles under his eyes (late night partying? Drug usage? Maybe it's fake; maybe just some smudged eyeliner? The real answer is insomnia, but that doesn't sound as impressive). Walks with a too-cool-for-you saunter and a toothpick, or most times a cigarette, clamped between razor sharp teeth. Red irises like glittering chunks of garnet that make him look like a sleepy-eyed dragon.

Soul Evans is as dangerous as shark-infested waters, smooth like vanilla pudding, and has a snappy one liner for every attempted insult thrown at him, not that there are many. His bad boy reputation follows him like a dark, looming shadow. He spends more time in detention than in class, if he bothers to show up to that as well. He's usually sitting behind the school, his teeth set on one or nine cancer sticks, brows furrowed like he wants to use them to set the school on fire, but if anyone passes by, resumes the devil-may-care attitude.

He's grown up. He grew from a shrimpy fourteen year old to a lanky, vocal cord-crackling teen, to a broad-shouldered almost-adult. If not for his sour disposition, girls would be fawning over him. Actually, that still doesn't stop some of them. They're willing to put up with any amount of growling just to sneak a peek of his flashing barracuda teeth or long-limbed, lean-muscled body. Even if they're terrified of him, their hushed, heated whispers in the halls sizzle like water on a hot stove.

* * *

_She _wears a Plain Jane sweater with jeans or a solid color, no pattern skirt. No accessories, no jewelry, no frivolities of any kind. She purposefully dresses to draw the least amount of attention to herself, but even taking her grandma-ish wardrobe into consideration, she's still one of the beauties of the school.

Maka's grown up too. She's not the little girl with the plaid skirts anymore; she's traded her pigtails for a single pony, although sometimes she wears her hair down or weaves it into a braid when her fingers itch to move in the middle of one of Professor Stein's lectures. Chemistry is one of her best subjects, but even then her overactive mind longs to do something else productive. Maka's the name, multitasking is the game. She can soak up pH equations and write an essay in French at the same time.

Her hair isn't the only thing that's changed, either. She's gotten a few inches taller (unlike Soul, who had a pretty _monstrous _growth spurt between the ninth and tenth grade and now has to slouch to avoid towering above the freshmen) and filled out a little. Drool-worthy legs, long and muscular from years of gymnastics and rumor has it, _martial arts_, a small waist, pale skin and rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes that crinkle when she smiles.

If it wasn't for her lack of interest in dating, the entire school would be falling over each other to ask her out. Her friends are more busty, more vapid, and more willing, so she often spends her nights at the library or some other teenager-free zone, leaving the others to play Seven Minutes In Heaven and drink themselves into a stupor.

Maka Albarn is the most well-known person in the school besides _him_. She's the gold star, the valedictorian, humanitarian, homecoming queen, you name it. But what sets her apart from any other high school bitch is that she isn't one. She is as sweet as sugar and means every word. She's kind and thoughtful and cares about others even if they don't feel the same. She looks for the best in everybody, and her goodness shines through like a beacon of fucking angel tears and fairy dust, straight from heaven itself.

Maka Albarn is the sort of girl who will bake cookies for an entire nursing home, start up a rally for her "Save The Otters" campaign, volunteer at a soup kitchen, and repaint a dog shelter, all the while keeping up a flawless 4.0 GPA and still finding time to represent Shibusen High with her black and white cheer uniform.

* * *

They've been attending the same school for four years.

For four years, they've been at each other's throats, playing the perfect parts of cat and dog, biting and snapping and sneering like the world depends on their squabbling.

They hate each other.

But even more, Maka _loathes _Soul.

He's lazy, disrespectful, rude, and just flat out idiotic for smoking those stupid things that are so obviously outlined in the pocket of his jacket. (It's a miracle that teachers haven't picked up on it, although they probably already know and just don't care enough to confiscate them.) Has he never attended health class (well, probably not) and seen what happens to people with blackened lungs and holes in their throats and slithery rasps for voices due to years of tobacco corroding their tissue? She's sure he won't think it's cool later, because at the rate he's going, he'll be dead before sixty.

Soul also singles her out for no reason.

He makes a point of finding out her sore spots, and never ever lets up. He teases and taunts and pinches and pokes her like he's a rowdy older sibling, but makes too many jokes about her nonexistent chest and her bookishness to still be considered "playful brotherly love". It just became harassment, and so she decided to fight fire with fire and hissed back at him when he barked insults. She would have thought he liked her, if the saying of "_If he's mean to you, that means he has a crush on you_" were true, but he was just a jerk and she was sick of trying to make excuses for him. She had stopped doing that a long time ago.

When he first started making fun of her, she was beyond hurt, because there was no reason for him to dislike her. She was goddamn pleasant to be around! But a small part of her (that eventually just numbed her sense of humiliation) remembered that he was the one who started this, so that meant he was the one who disliked her first. There was nothing she could do.

But that didn't stop her from trying. She tried leaving him notes, inviting him to her house after school to do homework or go to the park or ride bikes, but got no response. She baked him apology brownies, not exactly sure what she was sorry for, but later found them in the garbage, still wrapped in pink-tinted plastic wrap and curly ribbon. She gave up trying to make friends when he made a show of announcing loudly to their entire math class that she must like him since she was doing all of this, and everyone laughed and pointed fingers and started up the chant of "_Maka likes Soul! Maka likes Soul!_", even going as far as carving their names into a tree behind the school during lunch. Maka had spent that day in angry tears, squeezing her hands tightly in her lap in the girls' restroom, vowing to never again let him make a fool out of her.

* * *

Their antics have slowed down a little over the years. Regularly scheduled snarky comments from Soul cease in favor of skipping class. Upon discovering she was growing immune to it all, he let up, not quite stopping altogether, but it gave her enough time to climb her way to the top of the school food chain.

She joined cheer after junior high ended, along with her friends, taking the summer before high school to ponder the neon pink flyers that were passed out by last year's girls. Maka sat with her pals on the curb, wondering about whether they should join. Some thought it would be good for keeping in shape, some thought it would help get boys, and some thought it would just be fun. They decided to try out.

Maka's athletic background and the fact that her father was second in command helped get her in, although she was already poring over cheerleader handbooks and step-by-step guides before she even heard that she was accepted.

Soul busied himself with looking disinterested in everything. No one talked to him. Being used to the same treatment back home, he was neutral. But when students gave him nervous side glances, he felt a surge of something new, something strange. Power? Yeah, that's right. He was the new kid. He was a total mystery. He could be anybody, coming from a family of anybodies, and he felt almost giddy when he realized that _he_, Soul Evans, the least important person in the history of ever, could be someone.

So he saved money for a bike. He bought a leather jacket, smooth and supple and punk as all hell. He stopped caring. He layered on the cool and buried anything down inside of himself that wasn't considered so. He started poisoning his lungs, courtesy of the advice from some other people who claimed to be "like him". Misunderstood. Bad. _Trouble_. He accepted the cigarette with an open mind and shaking fingers. He was all of that too, wasn't he?

* * *

They do this until senior year. Metaphorically scratch and claw at each other. Then they get distant. Maka has cheerleading, book club, chess club, debate team, yearbook, dance class, extra credit assignments, volunteer work, anything and everything that keeps her from returning home in time to see her father and some leggy fresh-from-the-bar woman wrapped in nothing but silk sheets. Soul has his own business being moody and broody and riding around on his motorcycle and doing what he does best: nothing.

She's with the in crowd, the fashionable Thompson sisters Liz and Patti, the sweet, charming transfer student Tsubaki Nakatsukasa, Black Star and his other jock friends, and Kid, the son of the school's principal, who was a little uptight at first but became fast friends with Maka (they got each other as lab partners and bonded over a shared, some would say _nerdy_, interest in science and mathematics) and later, the rest of the crew.

Soul "Lone Wolf" Evans stays on the sidelines, not making any efforts to make friends.

Maka and Soul go from acquaintances to enemies to barely speaking.

Of course there's the occasional time where they _do _speak. Maybe Soul will mutter something that sets her teeth on edge and she'll tap her foot but remain silent and he'll poke and prod at her like she's a coiled snake and once she strikes, he'll laugh to himself and move on, shaking his head because it still gets a rise out of her. Really, nothing's changed. Seeing his face still makes her want to punch a wall. She still smiles like summer. He's a slacker who's just trying to get by. She's a doer, working to infinity and beyond.

Polar opposites.

But opposites attract, don't they?


	3. Chapter 3

The confrontation that changed everything was during a school basketball game. Friday night. Normal, routine. Just like always. Maka would cheer with the girls and then maybe go celebrate with ice cream if they won (or pity-eat themselves into a frozen dairy coma if they lost). She would go home feeling okay.

But of course, if everything had gone according to plan, there would be no story to tell.

* * *

Maka balances her cell phone between her ear and her shoulder, changing into her skirt and sleeveless top distractedly. This isn't the first time her father has called her when she's at school, but this time she actually picks up instead of letting it go to voicemail. It's got to be something worth listening to, because he sounds like he's nervously sweating on the other end.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi, sweetheart. How are you?"

"Fine. Was there something you needed? Because I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"Yes, of course. Maka, honey, uh, there's something I wanted to talk to you about. I know it'd be better in person, but you have your game and all, and-"

"Spit it out, Dad, I'm already late."

"Blair's coming to live with us."

Maka's world spins to a stop. She can hear her breathing, heavy and hard; there's a ringing in her ears, her father's words repeating and overlapping in her head like roaring ocean waves crashing against sand.

Blair. The glamorous young woman, oozing charm with her lulling purr of a voice, peach pie eyes and pink doll cheeks, her mama cat demeanor that's obviously all for show, considering she's barely in her early twenties and would much rather spend her time fussing over her sugar daddy who treats her like a princess. Her childish giggles, as smothering as her inflatable beach ball breasts and pouty lips and hair as purple as the room Maka grew up in. All of that is going to be under Maka's roof. Sharing bathroom counter space with perfumes that reek of dead roses and sugar, mixing her own laundry, tees and mesh shorts and ankle socks, with lingerie from late night activities, having to listen to her father and his unending fondness for his darling girl as they play house in the room right next to Maka's.

"Maka?"

She loses her grip on the cell phone, and it drops to the floor with a crack that she's sure to regret later. A beep lets her know that he hung up. Or maybe it was her? She reaches down with stiff fingers to scoop it up and shove it back into her locker before bolting out of the room.

_Maka._

"Maka!" Black Star snaps his headband and pushes his hands upward, reaching for the sky. His pre-game stretching rituals are interrupted. "Hey, what's your deal?"

The gym is buzzing with chatter and color. Everything is loud, chaotic. Everything is closing in on her. She's being choked by the smell of the gym, a scent that she's very much used to but now makes her stomach do somersaults, and not the kind that you get from a glance from your crush, but the kind that you get when you're on a long road trip and the car is so stale and stifling that you can't breathe. A thousand teenagers sharing oxygen, screaming and shouting.

Shiny black and silver pom poms rustle in the hands of the squad, who jump and do cartwheels and readjust their high ponytails. She should be out there with them, chanting "_Go Reapers!_" but all she can think about now is how to get to the side exit so she can escape.

_I guess you aren't Daddy's little girl anymore, _a voice in her mind says, sounding vaguely of popped bubblegum and pink nail polish on her living room couch.

On the other side of that door lies precious fresh air, and her hands scrabble for the handle as the announcer on the mic hollers "_Iiiiiintroducing your favorite players…_"

Her fingers close around it and then she's gone.

* * *

Soul Evans is more than surprised, not that he shows it, when Maka bursts out of the exit with a loud, rusty-sounding squeak. Her cheerleader's uniform looks crooked. She takes in big gulps of air, whole body trembling like she's in caffeine withdrawal, then parks her rear in the dry grass next to the brick wall and puts her head between her knees, which are pulled to up her chest. Soul thinks she's on the verge of a mental collapse and is about to make a break for it when she starts crying. Not loud wails that are saved for breakups and dresses that no longer fit and other popular girl problems. These are real, honest tears, and it sounds almost painful to hear her weeping like her heart has been broken into a thousand pieces. He notices that she does that thing where she has to stop and hiccup a couple times before dissolving into sobs again.

"Nice night," he says.

She jumps like she's been struck by lightning. When she sees him, her startled expression is masked by a scowl.

"What happened, mascot got run over by a golf cart?" Maka looks perplexed at this, and he chuckles inwardly at his own inside joke. Freshman year, he got ahold of the keys and did exactly that during one of the football games. There wasn't anybody in on it, so it became an urban legend of the school, and rumors traveled around all the time about who had done it. No one had seen him drive into the poor kid. The black fabric used to make the Reaper cloak had flown into the windshield, and Soul crashed the cart into a tree before making a mad dash for a hiding spot.

"Did your prom banners get torn down? Someone put whole milk in your cereal instead of skim? Get a ninety eight on your physics test?" He makes a tsking noise. "Should have studied more, honey. You can't become a rocket scientist if you don't get the grades."

"Screw you, Evans," she spits. Her eyes are narrowed, and he never thought he could see so much hate in a girl's expression like he does now. Her jaw is clenched, her nostrils flared, an ugly frown alienating her usual saintly demeanor.

"I thought you'd never ask, _Albarn_."

Maka gets up from her spot on the ground and stands face to face with Soul, even though she has to be at least a good half foot shorter than him. Her legs are scratched from the grass, her chin wobbles like she's going to burst into tears again, and Soul is torn because half of him wants to poke fun at her until she finally snaps, and the other half wants to run away. Crying females? No thanks, he'll pass.

"Are you gonna hit me?" His voice is low and as rough as the gravel that they're standing on.

Little rocks bite into Maka's thin-soled canvas sneakers, but she stands straighter than a yardstick and doesn't move a muscle. "Fuck you."

He doesn't even flinch. If anything, he's amused by her rare use of profanity and the fact that he's probably one of the only people who's ever heard her swear. "Give me your best shot."

"_Fuck you_." She moves to leave, and he grabs her wrist.

"Let go of me," she says harshly. "Let go right now, Soul, I mean it!"

He pulls her close. She smells like floral shampoo and _clean. _It's not overly perfumey, just sweet enough to speak of body lotions and scrubs and whatever fruity face mask she applies that makes her skin look so damn soft.

Maka slaps him across the face, stumbles back when he lets her arm go, and chokes back a sob.

"Must to have been really something," Soul says, rubbing his stinging cheek. "To make you run out of the game like that. Isn't there some rule book of cheerleaders? You can't walk out of there until it's over?"

"You're such an asshole," she says, eyes fixated on a pebble. "You have no idea what you're talking about, so just shut the hell up and leave me alone."

"I was here first," Soul rebutes. "Go find your own spot."

"Can you stop being a jerk for one minute?" She swipes water from her eyes.

For some reason, Soul says, "Yes." A moment later, she's staring at him like he just came from a time portal in the wall and he's saying that there's ten seconds until the world explodes. He finds himself asking her something.

"So what's wrong with you?" His voice is gruff.

She sniffles into her hand. "Like you give a crap."

_No, of course he doesn't. _"Maybe I don't. But I'm asking, aren't I?"

"My dad's girlfriend is moving in."

"Holy _shit_. And to think I thought it was something serious, like you contracted genital herpes from one _or all _of the football players."

Maka shakes her head, laughing/crying with enough hysteria to make Soul take a step back. "It's not… you don't… She's trying to be my mom. He's trying to act like everything's okay. They're both trying too hard to make it seem like he didn't screw up his marriage and make my mom leave us. Like she didn't catch him rolling around in the hay with a twenty year old when she came back early from work. And now, instead of bringing a different girl home every night, he's decided to stick with one for a while and she's coming to live with us. She's young enough to be my older sister and I can't stand being in the same room with her and now I have to _live _with her and I can't believe my dad would do this to me and I just… I want to disappear, okay?" She glares, expecting a snide remark in reply, but she doesn't get one.

"I'm sorry."

Soul Evans, the baddest boy of them all, just said he was sorry. And it sounds like he meant it.

Not wanting to test his limits, she mutters her thanks and shuffles her feet in the dirt.

"Do you really want to disappear?"


	4. Chapter 4

Maka is hesitant to answer.

What does he mean? Is this a subtle way of asking if she's okay with being kidnapped? Because her can of pepper spray is all the way in her bag in the locker room, she's all alone with a teenage delinquent, and no one knows where she is. 

"Come on." He reaches for her hand again, and she pulls it back reflexively. His gaze is gentle when it locks onto hers. "Trust me."  
She lets him take her hand, and their fingers fit together oddly, with her delicate paleness and small fingers and his big palms and long digits, rough but not uncomfortable. She trips over her own feet following him, and when she sees the orange death machine on wheels that he loves to flaunt so much, she stops in her tracks. "Oh, no. I can't."

"Trust me," he repeats, and gets on the seat easily like he's done it a hundred times, _which he probably has_, she has to remind herself as she lifts a leg over the vehicle awkwardly. She's glad for the extra layers under her skirt. Skorts may be as unsexy as high-waisted monogrammed granny panties, but they protect your modesty from sneaky-eyed males.

Maka reminds herself of all the twelve ways she can kick Soul's teeth in if he tries anything funny.

She is doing what would definitely be classified as dangerous, and irresponsible, and careless, and reckless, and impulsive, but then she thinks of how often she gets to do something like this and sits down on the bike.  
He hands her the helmet. "Where to?"

Maka slides the thing over her head and Soul smirks at the sight of the school's crowning jewel, little miss perfect herself, in his dirty, banged-up plastic hat. "I don't know."

"Hang onto me."

"_No_."

"You wanna fall off and break your neck? Be my guest."

The desire to leap off of the motorcycle before it even starts up is overpowering, but she does what he says and finds herself grabbing for something to hold onto. He jumps a little when she accidentally squeezes a handful of warm stomach muscle, and she apologizes sheepishly and takes to grasping his shirt instead.

When it roars to life, she holds him as tight as she can, her whole body stiffening. They drive out, and for a second Maka is too scared to open her eyes, but when she does, she's rewarded by a spectacular night view. The desert flies by, rocks and cacti and sand and more sand flicker past like flashing images on a TV screen. The city sparkles with colors, reds and blues and pink-purples, greens. Squiggles of neon light up the air like glowstick fluid, shaping into things like hot dogs and martini glasses and signs advertising motel rooms and all-you-can-eat buffets and exotic dancers. 

Maka lets out a wild-sounding whoop so loud it makes Soul's ears ring even over the rumble of the engine. She feels like she's flying, an exhilarating mix of terror and delight. She feels so good, so _free, _like nothing is tying her down and nothing can chase after her anymore. The hot, sweaty gym feels eons away, her friends, her school, her responsibilities, all seem to disappear like memories from a dream that you struggle to remember. If this is what it feels like to run away, she wants to do it. For real. 

Soul smells like smoke and gasoline and pure teenage rebellion, and as she lifts a hand from where she has it clenched onto him, she puts it in the air and feels the wind blow through her fingers like all of her worries leaking away through cracks in the sidewalk.

They ride like this for what seems like hours; the only sound is the purring that the bike makes, and the mutual feeling of contentment between both of the teens makes for a peaceful, almost dreamlike setting. Maka takes everything in; the rocky landscape that looks like fire against the dusky sky, the white stripes on the road that mark off every little bit of distance that they travel over, every little bit farther she gets away from her life.

* * *

Soul pulls over at the top of a hill, and he has to help her get off of the bike since her legs feel like jelly, feel like she's still riding and the rest of her body needs to catch up. They sit side by side. They are so far out of the city the stars are actually visible, and Maka lays back to admire them. Her hair is splayed out behind her like octopus tentacles. 

Soul sits back, leaning on his arms. He scratches at his neck and looks at her. "How's this for disappearing?"

"I want to stay out here forever." She lifts a heavy hand to brush space itself with the tips of her fingers. The stars look so close, like she could grab a handful and sprinkle them like confetti or pin them in her hair like tiny glittering bits of the sky. Her own piece of the universe.

"You could, you know." Soul rests on his back. The rise and fall of their chests inhaling and exhaling hot, dry air are simultaneous. "No one's stopping you."

"Everybody's stopping me. My friends would find me and drag me back. My dad would call the police before I'd make it out of state."

"They would think I kidnapped you. Chloroform and all."

Maka bites her tongue. "I could tell the truth and say you didn't."

"Why? It's a perfect plan. Get rid of me for good. You'd never have to see me again."

"Maybe I don't want to get rid of you just yet."

"That's reassuring. Thanks, Princess."

"You know, you're not so tough."

"You know, you sort of _are_."

Staring up into the infinite void is a lot more soul-defining than Maka ever thought it could be.

* * *

"It's getting late."

"Mm." Maka gives a bumblebee hum, but doesn't move.

Soul shifts, opens his mouth to say _get your butt moving, we're leaving_ but all that comes out is "Okay. Well, I'm goin'." His footsteps recede.

She closes her eyes for a beat. Two. Three. Takes in a breath. Four. Five. Chirping crickets and the buzz buzz buzzing of gnats and mosquitos in the air isn't what makes her get up, though. She finds Soul leaning against his bike.

She expected him to uphold his promise, that he'd just ride off into the night without a second thought of the girl he'd be leaving behind, but he's waiting like some faithful bodyguard.

His expression gives away absolutely nothing when he looks up from the cracked ground.

"Why are you still here?" she blurts. "You're never here. You always vanish."

"I don't like sticking around places for long."

"You're sticking around here with me."

"You're not as bad as I thought."

"How did you think?"

He draws in a breath and lets it out in a long, drawn-out sigh. His brain switches to autopilot as he recites what his Cool Guy script is telling him to say. He doesn't even bite the inside of his cheek anymore, he's so used to putting her down.

"Prissy, stuck up bitch? Equally bad, if not worse, as the rest of the cheer squad and your brainless crew of bozos that you call a football team."

"You don't know anything about me," Maka says. "Or them."

"'_Me play sport. Me throw ball_.' Yeah. There must be so much depth behind that thick skull."

"Don't criticize my friends when you spend your free time setting fire to trash cans and mouthing off to teachers," she says.

"_Friends. _Okay. Right. You mean when you don't have a stick up your ass about who's wearing what to homecoming, or if eating anything but salad will throw you off of that boy radar you chicks seem to think is actually a tangible thing."

"_Grow up. _Everything you think that we do sounds like you pulled from some teen movie from the eighties. This isn't The Breakfast Club or Pretty in Pink."

"Of course it isn't. That would mean Molly Ringwald would be here instead of you," he says without a speck of hesitation.

Maka stares, speechless. He knows who…? Oh, of course, just leave it to Soul to shock everyone by knowing his John Hughes too well.

"I feel sorry for you." She gives an indignant squawk at this. "You're blind. You can't even see what's real. I mean, I don't blame you. It's hard to look past the sea of passive aggressive teenagers, especially since everyone's playing nice for each other all the time."

"At least I have friends." Her only comeback is a total flop. She's trying too hard to find something to throw at him, something to defend herself with, something that she can stab at him so he'll back off.

"Wow. I'm so hurt," he says sarcastically. He presses a hand to his chest, like there's actually a heart somewhere inside there. "At least I'm not a carbon copy of the kid next to me."

"No, no one is like you, right? The high and mighty Soul Evans?"

He snorts but doesn't fight back. "Get on the bike."

* * *

The sky is bruise purple and the temperature drops when they drive back. The lights are still there when they pass through the city, but they seem a little duller. Still the same lonely people wandering the streets and drinking and smoking and looking for some company for the night. Maka wonders what must have happened to these people to drive them to such self-destructive behavior. Isn't adulthood supposed to be better?

The school parking lot is nearly empty. As soon as Maka hops off of the bike, the doors open and out come Liz and Tsubaki. 

"Where the hell were you," the blonde hisses, not even as a question but as an accusation.

"We were worried," Tsubaki tries.

"I was just-"

"We looked all over the school for your sorry ass. You missed the game," Liz says.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't feeling so great."

"If you're not feeling well, you need to get home right away and get some rest," Tsubaki says firmly, ignoring Liz's protests.

"You smell like cigarette smoke." The other girl gives her a look.

Maka swallows, nervously, because she's never had to lie to her friends before. She looks around for Soul, but he has already slunk back into the shadows. "Some burnouts were hanging around here."

"Why didn't you just tell them to go away? _Wait_, why were you even gone in the first place? What happened to you back there? You were fine when we were practicing. Was it the new routine? I knew we should've knocked off a couple of those moves…"

"Did the game go okay?"

"We would've done much better with you," Tsubaki says mournfully. "We won fifteen to ten, but we were still kind of lagging."

Right. Maka is always the one to bark out formations and make sure everyone is in their place.

"Did you get sick or something?" Liz sounds less mad now.

"No, I'm fine. Sorry for making you worry. I promise I'll make it up to you later, but now I need to get home."

"Sis and I can walk you," Patti chirps from the doorway.

"Don't be ridiculous," Kid says, appearing behind her, holding his reaper mask. He dons his costume with such a regal air that it's impossible to find him funny. "I can drive you all home."

Liz murmurs something under her breath and turns the faintest shade of pink. Kid smiles gently and gestures for the girls to follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, Maka doesn't see Soul. Not in French, not in the halls during passing time. She even sneaks a peek under the bleachers because she heard from some moony-eyed underclassmen that he hangs there sometimes. 

There's no one but a few stoned sophomores and a crumpled bag of corn chips. They look too baked to acknowledge that she's standing on their turf, and just glance around distractedly. They're about to offer the pretty girl to stay for a joint when he walks up behind her.

"Hey."

She nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of his voice and turns around.

His eyebrows knit together. "What."

"I! Uh. Just wanted to talk to you? About last night?"

He nods. "Okay."

Maka fidgets. "Um, can we go somewhere?"

Soul snorts. "Don't worry about these guys. They can't even form thoughts right now." He whistles. "Hey, Clay!" The blonde boy doesn't respond but rifles through the chip bag hopefully, then dumps the nonexistent contents onto the ground. His friend is passed out next to a boombox that's blaring metal. It sounds like metal, in the sense that rusty sheets of aluminum are being scraped together. Maka realizes why she isn't part of this group and feels like a complete outsider.

Soul gives a long sigh and nods again. "All right. Come on."

* * *

They end up sitting under a tree at the far edge of the field.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't."

"You missed an assignment in French." Her voice rings with hurt, like she's somehow offended that he didn't do his work.

"Yep. But knowing you, you probably took it for me- Oh, shit, is that why you wanted to talk? No offense, but I have more important things to do than meet up secretly with the school nerd to get homework."

"We aren't meeting up secretly," she says quickly. "And, yes. I did. You're welcome." She hands him a few papers in a… _Jesus effing Christ, is that a color-coded folder?_

"Lucky me," he mutters, taking it. "And, really? We're not? We're hiding behind a tree right now. That doesn't look suspicious at all."

"Well," she says. "I just-"

"Don't want anyone to see you with me? Relax. The worst people are gonna think is that I'm trying to get you to smoke pot or somethin'."

"I don't... do drugs."

"Like I don't know that. You're too pure, sweetheart. If you so much as looked at a picture of a _marijuana leaf_, you'd probably _explode_." He's conjured up the most mocking, childish voice possible, and it makes her blood boil.

"Don't call me that," she mumbles.

"What, sweetheart?"

_Maka, sweetheart._

"Shut up."

"Aw, am I making you upset, _sweetheart_? Do you want me to stop?"

_Papa loves you and Mama very much. More than anything in the whole world._

"I said shut up!" She's about to backhand him but this time he's too quick, catching her hand in midair, and she tries to squirm away but he holds strong. She keeps struggling, despite knowing this is only a repeat of last night and she should've known better than to trust this sadistic son of a bitch again, that it was just a fluke, he won't be able to be real again. He's not even a person with feelings. He is hardened steel, solid rock. He can't be soft.

"Violence doesn't solve conflict," Soul chides. "Isn't that what you always say?"

He keeps pushing her, and he knows it isn't right, but it sure is entertaining. When she grits her teeth and balls her fists like a toddler being forced to eat their peas, he smiles.

"I was willing to give you a chance! I wanted to forgive you!" She's absolutely furious, so why does she look like she's going to cry? "But you're exactly what everybody thinks you are! And I'm _done_! What did I ever do to you? Why are you such a jerk?"

"You told me to go f word myself yesterday, lest you forget."

"I said _fuck you_, not _go fuck yourself_." She shoves her hand against his chest and moves to get up.

"Wait, shit, Maka, wait, please. I'm sorry."

Three things she didn't expect to hear.

"_I'm sorry."_

_"Please."_

_Her name._ No nickname. No "come 'ere, Tiny Tits." No "smell ya later, Pigtails." He doesn't call her sweetheart, it's her real name that comes out of his mouth, and it sounds… _good_, really good, like he was meant to say it his whole life.

"Thank you for bringing me my homework," he says, saying the last word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "And I'm sorry. For being such an ass."

"Right now? Or from the beginning?"

He seems to struggle with this question. "Both?"

She snorts derisively. "Forget it."

"From the beginning! From the first day when I spilled punch on you, when I threw those stupid brownies away, when those little punks Ox and Harvar wrote our names on that tree, all of it. I'm just sorry, okay?"

"I just don't know why you picked on me so much," she said quietly. "I was only mean to you because you were mean first. And I'm never mean to anyone."

Soul swallows nervously. _Don't blow it, kid. It's just a lie. It's not brain surgery._ "Maybe that was the reason why. It made me wonder what pissed you off. Then I realized it was me."

"I'm not sure what it is, but something about you… it brings out the worst in me. You're horrible."

"And you're just so _damn _fun to mess with."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't. You think I'm fascinating_._"

"Like a monkey dressed like a mime, maybe. Get real."

"Why did you come with me then? _You _made the choice to get on my motorcycle. _You _looked for me today. I haven't done a single thing to make you talk to me." Soul leans on the trunk of the tree, twirling a cigarette around two fingers. Up, down, up, down. Maka's eye fixate on it, long enough for him to stop and hold it out to her.

She almost screeches. "Are you _crazy?_"

"Just trying to be considerate?"

"By giving me lung cancer," she deadpans. She watches him raise it to his chapped lips and light it. "You're killing yourself," she says softly, a question in her voice. _Why? _

He almost looks sorry, and for a second she sees a little boy deep somewhere in his eyes. Guilty and ashamed but resigned all at once, he knows the truth but can't seem to give up the only thing that takes him away from this place, makes it a little easier to get through. He's not addicted. Just dependant. It's his crutch.

"You're disgusting."

"And you're a total drag," Soul says through the stick between his teeth before taking one.

"I have to go. I'm going to be late."

"Have fun sipping Sprite Zeros with the rest of your posse. Do me a favor and get my math homework from Tsubaki, eh?"

Maka puzzles over this longer than she wants to. Since when does he care about homework? It's not surprising that he keeps up with Tsubaki, though, since she's too kind to let even scum like him fail his classes. She drops off assignments at his locker every day that he doesn't show up. She's not as bad as the others, Tsubaki. Soul actually kind of likes her, although not in the weird way he's drawn to Maka. More like a friendly older sister who he'd like to hang out with watching reruns of Saturday Night Live or Full House sometime. Not that he's into watching Full House or anything. Wait, who said that?

"Later, cowboy." She disappears without a trace of floral perfume, much to his dismay. Scentless and soundless like she'd never even been there at all.

He feels dumb for expecting a better reaction from her and crushes the nearly whole cigarette under the toe of his shoe.

* * *

Maka catches Soul during their free period the next day. He's reclining on the brick wall like a cat lazing in the sun, although he's a shark-human hybrid and it's overcast.

She approaches him with a stapled packet in hand. "This is all of it. All three weeks' worth."

He sits up and takes it with a disgruntled look. "Didn't actually expect you to get it."  
"Sorry, was that a thank you?"

"Is this how you greet me now? By giving me worksheets?"

"Hi, Soul."

He pats the wall to gesture her to sit down. She hops up and swings her tennis shoe-covered feet in the air, hitting the brick with a small _thud. _

"You know, I could tutor you if you wanted-"

"I don't. Thanks, though."

Both of their minds stray to why he answered how he did. His grades aren't great, and he's rejecting help?

"What do you want to do when you get out of here?"

Soul tries not to think about that _when _becoming an _if. _"Portable toilet construction."

"Funny."

"I'm serious. It's always been my dream to help manufacture the products that so many dedicated American citizens depend on for clean and easy potty breaks. Without people like me, they would be toilet-less, stuck having to piss in the bushes. How degrading is that?"

"Maybe you could give up that dream to become a comedian." She smirks. "Thanks for the speech, but I've gotta get going."

"They won't miss you for one period. Stay. I have lemon bars." He rummages through his bag and pulls out a crumpled Ziploc bag. "They're a little squished."

Maka, who's been running on an empty stomach all day, takes one. The dough is flaky and the filling is tart with just the right amount of sweet. "Did you make these?" she asks, trying not to sound awestruck.

He gives a noncommittal shrug. "They're good, right?"

Good is an understatement. _Incredible _is an understatement. She stuffs the rest of the dessert in her mouth and nods vigorously.

"Want another? Help yourself."

She tries not to look too eager, but her stomach makes an unfortunate sound between a growl and a moose passing gas. Soul plops the bag next to her, smiling to himself, and she bites into another with as much dignity she can muster.

They sit silently for a few minutes. Some kind of rock music is exuding from the one earbud in Soul's ear. Mixed signals from him: one earbud means he's open to listening, eyes closed and arms crossed could possibly mean _don't look at me, don't talk to me, don't touch me. _

Maka munches pastries, a small pile of crumbs collecting in her lap. She brushes them off with the sleeve of her shirt. Today's outfit showcases her heartfelt devotion to the school; black sweater with "DC" for Death City embroidered in white in the left top corner with the skull mascot above it, skirt to match, white socks, white sneakers. A hairclip, again in the shape of a skull, pins back the ashy strands that would otherwise fall into her eyes. The crumbs in the folds of her skirt fall to the ground, but a couple still remain near her mouth. There's a bug bite on her ankle, and a small area on her shin that her razor must have missed.

Maka Albarn doesn't seem untouchable for once, and it's partly a thrill and partly a little wrong, like he's watching someone in the bath without their permission.

She closes the Ziploc and wipes her mouth quickly, as if she can feel his eyes and he looks away.

"I should go?"

It's a statement, but she puts it like a question. Should she go? Should she continue filling her stomach with powdered sugar-dusted heaven or leave approximately ten to fifteen minutes early for her next class? Soul doesn't seem to mind her company at this point, he's just nodding his head to the beat of his tunes. He reacts when she speaks, though.

"Should you?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but she's kind of beyond his mind games right now. "Yeah, I need to ask my teacher about something." No, she doesn't.

He knows. _No, you don't._ He inclines his head. "Okay." 

She leaves to meet Liz and Patti by the locker that the two sisters share, but they've already gone to class. Maka feels a tiny tingle of guilt in her tummy, but it's probably just the lemon bars talking.

She tries not to think about ditching her friends in favor of Soul Evans.

* * *

Lunch is not as awkward as she thought it would be.

Liz spreads cream cheese on a bagel half while her sister rams the other piece into her mouth like she hasn't eaten in days. Everyone who witnesses her eat is always amazed to see such a little thing consume so much, but she's constantly chowing down, acting like no one feeds her. Her stomach is a black hole.

Tsubaki and Kid unpack neat lunchboxes with tupperware and cloth napkins. Black Star inhales cafeteria pizza slices by the dozen and washes them down with a carton of chocolate milk that stains his mouth a lovely shade of brown. Tsubaki fusses over him, dabbing at his greasy, crumb-covered face with her napkin while he sits still, looking smug.

Maka rolls her eyes at this exchange. The blue-haired idiot has been crushing over that girl for years, and little does he know, she feels the same way. Everyone else knows about it but them, too. Now if only one of them would make a move.

"Where'd you go during free period, Maka?" Patti munches on potato chips, accidentally jabbing her elbow into Kid's salad.

"I, uh, had to ask my teacher about something."

"I already checked with Ms. Mjolnir about that assignment," Kid assures, delicately redirecting Patti's arm, "turns out we _were _right on question twelve, there was a miscalculation. Her mistake. She's not taking off points if you got it wrong."

"Oh," Maka says. Her palms sweat underneath the table.

"Patti, _please _watch where you're grabbing."

Liz examines one pale pink acrylic nail. "You know, Maka, I heard Kim saw you sitting with Soul Evans."

"I was giving him some homework that he'd missed."

One perfectly shaped eyebrow raise stabs a million accusations. "That's usually Tsubaki's job."

"I don't mind," Tsubaki replies serenely, wiping up the last of Black Star's mess.

"I _know _you don't mind, that's not the point. The point is, Maka, that you're hanging around a dark horse, and that horse is going to kick you right in the face."

"I doubt you know anything about horses," Maka says, mildly irked.

"Hey." Liz frowns between bites of cream cheese. "I'm serious. That guy's bad news."

Maka keeps a neutral face but feels the pressure of her teeth clenching inside her mouth. What does Liz know about Soul aside from rumors? Even though she's an expert on digging up dirt on people, she couldn't possibly know him in the way that Maka does.

But wait a second, Maka doesn't know him either. At least not really. She feels completely silly for even thinking so. She spent one evening and one free period with the boy and now she feels like she can write a biography.

"Sis, look what I can do!"

Everyone stops to stare at the tin foil sculpture that the younger Thompson has fashioned to resemble herself. Strangely enough, it does.

Liz tells her it looks nice. The earlier conversation is forgotten. The group keeps eating.


	6. Chapter 6

Maka's heart plummets into her stomach when she sees _her _across the room, prancing around in a short, tight dress and high heeled boots. Unfortunately, it's her that sees Maka first, and she comes over, a paper bag rustling noisily in her hand.

"Maka! I'm sorry to disrupt you and your friends, but you forgot to get your lunch this morning and your father asked me to bring it to you." She beams.

"Blair, um," Maka says, taking it. The feeling the heat of her classmates' stares burns into her back. "Thanks."

"No problem!" she gushes. "He made it special for you, you know. Peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off. And those baby carrots! And-"

"Don't you need to get back to work?" Maka asks loudly with enough volume to make the onlookers look on.

"Oh, no, silly. I'm off today. Do you know if your father's here?"

"He works... in this building. I'm sure he's around. But he's busy, you know," Maka adds. "He might not have time to talk to you right now."

"Who said we'll be talking?" She winks one orange eye.

"Please keep your voice down," Maka begs.

"You need to take a chill pill." Blair rifles around in her bag and pulls out a lollipop, handing it to her like she's four years old again and needs help reaching the bathroom sink. "Don't worry, I'm outta here. Just as soon as I find that daddy-o of yours!" Her heels click all the way out of the cafeteria.

Just as suspected, she gets catcalls and hoots from half of the male population and does nothing to discourage them. Instead, she blows kisses. A quarter of the male population now sport head injuries from falling on the floor.

"Who was that, Maka? Your mommy?"

"She can be my mommy anyday!"

"Yeah, I just wanna play house with that!"

_Stop objectifying women, you actual swine _is what she wants to say, even if the woman in question is the person who's ruining her life. Instead, she sits numbly, hands clutching the paper bag, as her schoolmates holler after Blair and frantically ask Maka for her number.

Black Star pats her hand awkwardly, trying to be of reassurance. But when he opens his mouth to speak, it's not some wise fortune cookie advice.

"Can I have your lollipop?"

* * *

Maka runs out. Out of the cafeteria, out of the school, almost out of the property until she realizes that would be considered skipping. _Skipping_. The word tingles in her mouth, tastes like excitement. It sounds like something worth trying. But she doesn't know how. Who knows how?

She finds Soul.

He turns with a start when he hears his name, then relaxes, squinting a little. "Albarn?"

"I need to get out of here."

"Um. Like, _out _out?"

"Take me somewhere. It doesn't matter. Just get me the hell out of this place." She's wobbly in both her knees and her voice, so he rises from his spot and walks out to his bike. She tails him and clambers on with less grace than usual, and Soul has to bite his lip to keep from asking her what's wrong and immediately regrets it because now his mouth tastes metallic.

Best case scenario, she would just refuse to tell him. Worst case, she'd start bawling.

They drive. Soul feels moisture on his shoulder and almost turns around to see if she's crying, but he already knows the answer and doesn't want to risk crashing into another tree. He isn't a freshman anymore, this is a motorcycle instead of a golf cart, and there's nobody around to see the stunt even if he decides to pull it except for Maka, who would most likely scream at the top of her lungs that he's a psychopath and call the police to take him away.

He kind of wants to go to the local diner, a small burger joint with greasy checkered floors and arguably the best milkshakes around and waitresses with pastel aprons and beehive hairdos.

Hot, salty fries would taste great right now, and his breath probably reeks so it might comfort her if he isn't coughing tobacco into her face. Chain smoking at school is a bad habit that he knows he needs to stop, but sometimes stress and/or boredom gets to him and he ends up going through half a pack of Marlboros in one sitting. It's like the feeling you get after eating too much; you feel guilty and heavy and just _bad. _He feels like there's sticky tar weighing down his lungs, which there is, but it's damn right _tangible _when he tries to take in a breath and starts hacking like a cat with a hairball.

Maybe a large paper cup of Coke and a double cheeseburger would make Maka stop hiccuping.

"You wanna get something to eat?"

"Um. No?" He's saddened by her response but understands after what she says next. "That's where everyone looks for the kids who skip."

"Kids who skip, huh? That would be us." He grins, but she doesn't say anything. "Don't you feel cool now? You're being so disobedient. You're on your way to becoming a real rebel. Fight the system. Disrespect teachers." She's still silent. "So, uh, where _don't _they look for the people who ditch? I mean, since you know so much about the subject."

"I don't know. Where do you go?"

Truthfully, he either hides out in the foresty area behind the school just to be able to say he is technically "at school" or drives around aimlessly. Back roads, country roads, freeways, through the city, past the city. Once he went to the next town over and spent the day there. Nothing much to do but wander around on foot, but no one questioned him because he wasn't the kind of person you would want to approach anyway, and there wasn't a high school or any sign of teenagers anywhere. Mostly retired folks and small businesses and little yappy dogs.

She's probably expecting him to go around partying during school or hooking up with twenty four year olds with self-administered facial piercings in a paint-splattered van or shooting up heroin in a dirty alley. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that he actually just plays with a lighter and takes naps. It's going to seem dull compared to whatever her mind is making up.

* * *

Then the weirdest thing happens.

Soul takes her to his house.

If she's being honest, Maka always pictured his house as a tiny, rundown shack in the middle of the not-so good area of the city with gangs and drug dealers and screaming neighbors, and is utterly stunned to see a completely ordinary place when they pull up in his driveway.

"There shouldn't be anyone home," he says, turning off the engine.

Maka takes a minute to marvel at the domesticality of it all. The house is a light powder blue, calm and comforting like the sky on a spring day. White trim, white door. The lawn is well kept. Bushes of pastel pink roses and periwinkle hydrangeas bloom wildly. She's still stunned when she sees this, because Soul doesn't seem like the gardening type and the yard looks like someone's been slaving over it for hours. There's no way it can look that good all by itself. Maybe his mom or dad has a green thumb.

"You can come in, you know."

She does.

The inside of the house is normal too. Almost… expensive-looking. There's granite countertops in the kitchen, plush couches, doilies. It's the doilies that catch her attention. A little patch of lace and the smell of day-old brownies sitting in a glass dish under plastic wrap. A clock shaped like a cat. A photo of a family behind polished glass; a young boy, an older boy, and two parents.

"You live with your grandmother, don't you?"

Soul freezes for a second, then looks back at her. "Yeah."

"What happened to your parents? They aren't… you know…"

"No, no. They're not dead or anything. Although they might as well be," he adds in an undertone.

"Where are they? Vacation or something?"

"They're up East. Other side of the country." After glancing at Maka, he continues. "We, um, don't keep in touch."

"That's horrible."

"Not really. We don't get along well. Put us in the same room and I promise you, someone's gonna die." He leads her down a flight of stairs. "I left with my grandma when I was fourteen. She agreed to take me with her when she moved here. She needed warmer weather and I needed out."

"Would it be nosy of me to ask why you left?"

Soul opens the door to his room and gives a half-shrug. "It was constricting. My parents are a couple of upper class asshats, and they were controlling as fuck towards me and my brother. Dress us up, feed us, tell us what to do and what not to do and how to act proper and pleasant all the time. It gets exhausting."

"You have a brother." Maka's surprised. She tries to picture him with a sibling.

"Yeah. Wes. He's still there. He prefers that life, anyway. Everyone worships him back home. He isn't the one who let everyone down and vanished."

"At least you got away from them."

Soul notices the sour expression on her face, and smiles in that crooked way of his. "Guess we both have shitty families, huh?"

Being in his room is like exploring a monster's lair. It's scary. Anything can pop out at you. You don't know what could be hiding in here.

Mostly it's just… stuff. Barely-touched textbooks, some band and movie posters (Dizzy Gillespie and other jazz artists, along with _Kill Bill_ and _Battle Royale_), what looks to be a long overdue copy of _Animal Farm_ from English class freshman year, clothes all over the floor, a messy bed, miscellaneous junk.

He stares at her menacingly but also a little nervously, like he's daring her to say something about the ceramic kittens in the bathroom, or the photos of what must be him on the fireplace mantel because no one else has _that much _fluffy white hair or fangs like a teething baby shark. He's like Jaws mixed with Jack Frost mixed with Count Dracula. In the pictures, he's sitting at a piano, standing next to a well-dressed family, crawling around on the ground with rolls of baby fat and a poofy diaper. Nothing says that this house belongs to a boy who terrorizes schoolchildren to the point of crying so hard they can't see straight.

Soul rummages through a box and pulls out a small bottle of _something_, and Maka moves her hand from its place on her cheek and looks at it warily. "What's that?"

He takes a swig after removing the cap and she wrinkles her nose. "You're drinking _here_?"

"Where do you want me to go, outside? I don't want neighbors spying and reporting it back to Grandma."

Maka finds this amusing for some reason. Every other time, he begs for attention from teachers until they're red in the face, but now he's afraid of an old woman?

Soul holds the bottle out to her. "It won't kill you."

"How do you know?"

He puts it in her hand. She visualizes it as a loaded gun. "Trust me."

He's been saying that a lot lately, and she's been trusting him a lot lately. Nothing bad has happened because of it yet, so she tips the contents into her mouth and coughs immediately after, the amber liquid burning like fire as it slides down her throat. A moment later, it warms her belly like breath from a dragon.

"You like?"

"I don't not like."

"You're a strange one, you know that?"

Maka gulps another mouthful and relishes the sizzling feeling in her chest.

"Slow down."

"No."

"Maka, I'm serious. Slow down."

"I do like, actually. I like very much."

They finish off the remainder of what's left in the bottle, and Maka's kind of sure that it was half full when he got it out, but it still seems like a lot. She moves from her spot on the floor to lay on his bed, and everything seems slowed down when she shakes her head from side to side like a dog with water in its ears. Soul might be talking, she can't exactly tell because she's staring at the ceiling and counting the little bumps in the plaster.

This makes her feel dangerous, edgy, like she could even fit in with Soul's crowd. Grown up and laid back. She's cool. Skipping an important test in calculus to sit around drinking with the school's trouble kid.

Wait, skipping a _what_?

Oh, no.

Maka no longer feels carefree. She feels sicker than she did when she had the stomach flu for a week and a half in the seventh grade.

Soul notices and frowns at her. "Everything okay?"

Her face changes from rosy pink to puke green, and when she claps a hand over her mouth, he quickly shoves a wastebasket under her face, seeing the telltale signs and reacting faster than a bolt of lightning. "Bathroom's on the left once you get upstairs." He gives her a look that says _don't you dare throw up on the carpet _and she wobbles up the steps clutching the bin with white knuckles.

He can hear her emptying her stomach all the way from his room and debates going up to help.

When he gets to her, she's mostly just dry heaving.

They sit against the bathroom cabinets under the sink. Maka's rubbing her eyes the way she does when there's tears she's trying to hide, and Soul mists the room with lemon-basil air freshener.

"I'm sorry," she says, sniffling. Her hands are limp at her sides, palm-up. "I don't know what I was expecting. I thought escaping with you again would help, but it didn't."

"No harm done. Besides you losing your breakfast."

"I have a really major test that I'm supposed to be taking right this minute, and instead I'm here with you and wishing I didn't hop on your stupid bike, and-"

"You can make up the test, right? And if it makes you feel better…"

Maka sniffs again. "What?"

"...You can't hold your liquor for shit."

The tears stop falling, and her shoulders quake when she laughs. "How is that supposed to make me feel better? Ya big jerk. It's your fault that you brought out the booze."

"It's supposed to discourage you from drinking, duh. You'll remember your first experience as totally horrible and never want to do it again."

"That's some sneaky psychology you got going on there." She waggles her finger, and he pushes her off of him when she starts to lean on his shoulder.

"I think you're still drunk."


End file.
